Homechickens, I hesitate to impart to you this tale, because it undermines my reputation as a crusty curmudgeon. But, nonetheless, I will.
While I was walking out of the library this afternoon, mind aflutter with the literary joys weighing down my right shoulder, I happened across a young woman with whom I went to school, carrying a very small baby.
“That is a very small baby,” I said, ever one for stating the obvious.
“11 days,” she said.
“Are you sure it’s appropriate to be stealing babies that young?”
“It’s mine, actually,” she said. I studied her form, which confirmed my suspicion that pregnant women actually do deflate, like balloons, after delivery.
“Well,” I said. “Congratulations, then.”
“Thanks,” she replied, tilting the pink-clad creature’s sleeping face at me so I could see it. Admittedly, it didn’t look very happy at the whole cold outside side. But it was a pretty cute baby. And I appreciated Pippin’s zeal for getting the little bastard a library card early.
As I walked away, grey clouds looming overhead, it occurred to me that I forgot to ask what the baby’s name was. Perhaps it hasn’t been named yet. At any rate, welcome to the world, Pippin’s child.
Please god let this be the last thing I ever tag babies. Ever. Thank you.